


Of Luck, Glitter, and an Emerald Ounce

by hitlikehammers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (From The Junior's Section at Target), (Which in Serum-Terms Means a Big Jealous Streak), Bucky Barnes is a tease, Fluff, Glittery Holiday Tee Shirts, M/M, Schmoop, Semi-Public Sex, Snark, St. Patrick's Day, Steve Rogers Has A Small Jealous Streak, Supersoldier Snark, Supersoldiers in Love, kiss me i'm irish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 11:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10411638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: “That looks like it came from the Juniors section.”Bucky’s just leaning back against the countertop letting the garish glitter-green t-shirt ride up his midsection, watching Steve knowingly—reading everything Steve’s thinking and shifting his hips wordlessly, idly in response with the smirk in his eyes and not his lips, because Buckyknowsthat the plush pout of those lips won’t tempt the same way if he lets them quirk upward.Steve, for probably the millionth time since he kissed that stunning mouth, sweet as it’d ever looked, for the first time in 1934—Steve thinks, most likely, that for all the shit out there that’s ever been aiming to end him, from aliens to his own failing body?James Buchanan Barnes is going to be the goddamndeathof him.Or: Bucky takes the wholeKiss Me, I'm Irishthing to a new (infuriating, tantalizing) level.(Gift-Fic Extravaganza, 8/25)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luninosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/gifts).



> Belated in the first place because this was supposed to be Christmas-y, then Valentine's-y, and then St. Patrick's-y, and I couldn't even get that on time. And with considerably less porn (really, like, none) than I'd hoped. 
> 
> In my defense, I was/am sick, busted my knee, and screwed up my wrist in an accident. But... yeah. Also un-beta'd and riddled with typos, no doubt. Apologies.

“That looks like it came from the Juniors section.”

At Target, specifically. Steve was down at Gateway Center last week, in fact, and he is fairly fucking certain that this splay of green glitter and low-cut v-neck had greeted him on a mannequin upon entering, next to a swimsuit that barely passed above indecent exposure. 

So the thing stretched obscenely over Bucky’s chest to the point of being translucent, to the point of hugging at the level of caress, at the level of making Steve downright _envious_ of the cotton—that thing?

Steve’s pretty damn sure that thing came from the Junior’s section at Target.

Steve gulps his coffee a little quicker in the futile attempt to aid the sudden was his mouth’s gone bone-fucking-dry.

And yeah: useless, as expected.

And Bucky’s just leaning back against the countertop, watching Steve knowingly, reading everything Steve’s thinking and shifting his hips wordlessly, idly in response with the smirk in his eyes and not his lips, because Bucky _knows_ that the plush pout of those lips won’t tempt the same way if he lets them quirk upward.

Steve, for probably the millionth time since he kissed that stunning mouth, sweet as it’d ever looked, for the first time in 1934—Steve thinks, most likely, that for all the shit out there that’s ever been aiming to end him, from aliens to his own failing body?

James Buchanan Barnes is going to be the goddamn _death_ of him. 

And Bucky grabs for one of the garish green-frosted cookies-and-cream donuts on the table and takes way too much into his mouth, lips stretched obscenely as he devours it by halves, licking his lips slowly before stretching just a little bit, riding the too-small shirt up his abs.

“And if it did?” Bucky asks, a sigh and a hint and a challenge, a dare soft and subtle, guiding a crescendo that surges hard in Steve’s veins as he takes the other half of the donut, pops it into his mouth, and saunters away with a wink, his bare feet padding against the wood floor.

“It did.”

Steve whips around to see Natasha with the carton of orange juice at her lips, brow quirked.

“Come from Target,” she clarifies before taking a swig, taunting him.

“I hate you,” Steve groans, and Natasha, being Natasha, doesn’t even bother stifling her snort at his suffering.

His friends suck.

_______________________

So here’s the deal: they have this thing, right? Bucky was always a looker, and it was to both their advantage for him to play it, to keep prying eyes away from the kinds of things that would have been properly scandalous, the kinds of things that really caused a heart to trip—so attention here and there, spent and received: it burned, it stung, but they’d agreed to it, both ways on the off chance Steve caught a dame’s eye before, more often since, well, _since_ —but they’d long agreed. If a peck on the cheek came, take it. If a hand on the chest rested, go in kind to the hip only to the brink of propriety and kind reciprocation—nothing more. Lips, fine, but to be avoided if possible because Bucky was a jealous man, and he never pretend otherwise, but Steve.

Steve saw red like the world was made of ruby and blood when he had a mind, so. Lips.

Lips were a last resort, only when they couldn’t be helped. _Only_.

And giving out affection, that was fine for pretense, as much as was needed to keep prying eyes where they ought to be, and not where they ought not. Enough to keep Bucky’s reputation healthy and Steve’s eye-rolls good natured and not at all jealous of the girl on Bucky’s arm. 

And it worked. It wasn't perfect, and it'd been a little rough for a while in the war, once Steve was, well. What he was. But they managed. And it was worth it 

And now, they didn't need it for the same reasons, but they still had to keep the act. They both agreed their relationship wasn't a secret, but they weren't all that interested in featuring on the cover of _People_. After a myriad of tabloids plastered with their mugs, of course. 

And this thing that they have, in the now, is fairly detailed. All-encompassing. If they were going to live in this brave new world, the way that it was, being who _they_ were and _what_ they were? Ground rules were always gonna be necessary. _No_ lips, because Steve’s needier, more demanding even as he fights it, than he’s ever been before, and Bucky chastens that in him as best he can, but he gets it: he remembers when he guarded Steve so jealously himself, for different reasons, but no less fierce. The rest is mostly the same: careful around cameras, to both extremes, depending on who’s snapping the pics; gracious on Bucky’s end to Steve’s chagrin while he’d been courting public opinion, but as soon as Bucky was more popular than any of them Steve’d been quick to revise that one. 

 

And some of it was easy. Captain America was lucky enough to still be mostly an upstanding, straight-laced character, with only the tipsy trying to put the moves on. Bucky though. 

_Bucky though_. 

Bucky, as ever, oozes sex appeal. Steve’s an...ideal, of sorts, or so they say—he can understand it, but he still can’t quite _see_ it, only _feels_ in under Bucky’s touch, Bucky’s mouth, Bucky’s gaze hungry on him and him alone: but _Bucky_.

Bucky was always sure in his skin, easy grin that could send a heartbeat thumping heavy and blood feeling too big and too hot for the veins. Bucky took a little bit of time after everything to regain that, but when he did? When he did, it was different. When he did, it was just this side of dangerous in a way that took sex appeal to the level of sheer temptation.

And boy, does Steve know it, because Bucky’s not a character. Bucky’s not a costume and an image as unflappable as a flag, or the bald eagle, which are both flappable in the literal sense but fuck that because Steve isn’t really thinking all that clearly, because Steve’s got ladies on every side of him, touching too _much_ of him, and it’s only because Bucky thinks the idea of green beer is hilarious that they even ventured out of the Tower today, and it’s to Steve endless chagrin and the detriment of his thin and fraying sanity, his self-control that Bucky didn’t change his fucking clothes before they entered the melee of drunken revelers, but _fuck that_ because Steve can’t think straight, and Bucky’s licking his lips, and Jesus Christ, he’s not meant to withstand this kind of torture.

Which brings him back to his point, which is basically: they have this thing. An agreement. An accord of what’s okay and what isn’t and what and when they can both stretch the rules, and what constitutes as too much bending that it threatens to break something feral. And the _thing_ they have only works if they both stick to it, if they both agree it’s in everyone’s best interest, but most significantly their _own_ , that they adhere to the rules of the thing.

And Bucky’s turning his head and letting the endless stream of kisses land anywhere but his lips, deft and sure and all smiles, but careful: and Steve thinks, fine. Fine, that’s all by the book.

But god _damn_ , they should have thought about putting an upward limit on how many fucking kisses to _any_ part of Bucky that weren’t delivered by Steve’s lips were allowed. Because Steve’s about to lose it. Entirely.

Straight-laced his ass.

“I’m taken, doll,” Steve hears him tell a particularly persistent redhead who’s daring, who’s trying for a little tongue even as Bucky holds her elbows and keeps her at bay. “S’why it says kiss _me_ ,” he winks, and leans in to whisper like it’s a secret, even as his eyes flick to Steve’s as he hums: 

“Only one person I return the favor for.”

The redhead giggles, obviously tipsier than even she probably thought, and Bucky smirks as she tries sloppily to meet his lips and only manages to brush against his stubble. And yes: to the letter, Bucky’s technically abiding by every limit they’ve ever laid down, but.

 _But_.

Steve’s blood is bounding, and his breath is heavy, and Bucky right here and now?

Bucky is _not_ playing by the rules.

_______________________

They’re back at the tower, where Steve should have suspected it’d be just as rowdy as it was outside, even with a miniscule fraction of the people. Because Tony. And alcohol.

And the ideas of _scope_ and _overzealousness_ and _temperance_ and _propriety_ were not in a Stark’s vocabulary. Steve wonders if that’s genetic or something.

And it’s after too many drinks that do nothing, and too much of Bucky’s throat being bared as he laughs at Clint and leans into Natasha, and gestures toward Tony for refill of some garishly neon cocktail as Thor booms raucously at the same stupid joke Clint had told that Steve had missed for the _staring_ : well.

It’s after that, or thereabouts, that Steve follows Bucky when he gets up for more corned beef sliders and corners him in the kitchen, hands braced on either side of Bucky’s body, chest heaving enough to brush Bucky’s on the gasp.

“You’re not even _Irish_ ,” is the best Steve can come up with. Awesome.

“It’s St. Patrick’s Day, punk,” Bucky’s eyes glint with mischief as he grabs one of the mini-sandwiches and bites it provocatively. “Everyone’s a little Irish.”

“You don’t have a fucking ounce of Irish in you, Barnes.” Which is true. Bucky’s family on both sides had been mostly English, closest to him: touch of Scotland on his mom’s side, just a little, but not a lick of Irish.

“Not at the moment, maybe,” Bucky purses his lips in thought, but his eyes are still dancing, and the roll of his throat as he swallows his mouthful is too distracting in the moment for Steve to catch on immediately, it takes a minute, and by that time Bucky crowding Steve’s space and breathing heavy, warm against his skin:

“Wanna put a couple in me?”

He nips a gasp out of Steve with a soft bite to Steve’s jaw, and Steve glances behind him at their friends gathered in the common area, completely visible to the kitchen should anyone choose to stand and walk just a pace or two.

“They’re all wasted, they won’t even notice,” Bucky croons, grinding up against the hard line of Steve’s cock.

“Thor is—”

“Thor brought his mead,” Bucky murmurs darkly, circling his hips until Steve’s fighting a whimper. “He’s three-sheets.”

And Steve should protest. He should at least lead them toward their floor, their room. Something.

But that stupid fucking shirt is already riding up Bucky’s stomach, the sequined _Kiss Me_ all that’s still visible, and good godamn. 

Steve can’t help himself.

Bucky knows it, too. Sees it before Steve’s even fully decided, because he turns them, just a little harder to see—three paces, maybe, before they’d be caught, and he lifts himself on the countertop in a seamless move, wrapping legs around Steve’s hips and pulling him flush, arching up so all Steve has to do is pull down both their pants just enough, and thrust. 

“Make an honest man out of me, Rogers,” Bucky smirks, looking down at his chest, all innocent as he nods toward the demand.

Put a little Irish in him, make it honest, he says.

Well: Captain America’s honest to a fault.

His hands are split between both their flies before either can draw a full breath in.

_______________________

They go about three more rounds in their own rooms, after somehow _not_ getting caught in the kitchen. Steve puts a couple ounces of Irish in Bucky both of the ways he knows how, and Bucky tears the shirt in two, stripping himself bare before he gives up the pretense and fucks Steve six ways to next St Paddy’s. 

And Steve is deliciously sore for it, as he sits on the couch and watches Bucky pour them both coffee, watches him swing his hips in a saunter to hand Steve his mug.

“Sweeten that up for you?” he asks, holding out a creamer that’s more Baileys than half-and-half, and Steve sets his coffee down and grins.

“Sure.”

And true to his word, Steve grabs Bucky and pulls him down; kisses him as sweet as he knows how.

“You’re absurd,” Bucky smiles against his lips, giving him a peck before he pulls back, drips creamer into both their drinks and flops down next to Steve, coffee in hand as Steve wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in.

“Naw,” Steve nuzzles Bucky’s hair a little, and kisses the crown of his head, because of all the smooching of the 17th, the 18th and every day after? That’s Steve’s and Steve’s alone.

“Naw, I’m just lucky.” And well.

S’his birthright, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com).


End file.
